Rage Against the Dry Cleaner

A few months ago, Bruiser had a bout of potty training regression and managed to wet both his bed and ours in the space of two nights. As a result, I had not one but two down comforters that needed to be dry cleaned, and since I wasn’t willing to hand over my life savings to the overpriced dry cleaners down the road, I decided to try a drive-thru dry cleaner about 15 minutes away, in a less-expensive part of town.

When I drove up to the door of the place, I spotted a little man inside. An adorable, sweater-clad lapdog was seated in a chair beside him.

“Look at that doggy, kids,” I said. “Isn’t it sweet?” The dog, I thought, was a good sign. Clearly, this man was something of an eccentric. He would probably clean my comforters cheaply and perhaps even give me something a little more interesting to report when it came to the dreaded how-was-your-day conversation I had with my husband each evening. (Dreaded because “I cleaned out the oven. It took a whole hour,” just doesn’t have the same impressive ring as my husband’s “A serial arsonist threatened to shoot me when I asked him to do an interview.”)

“I have these two comforters to be cleaned,” I told the man as I pulled the comforters from the back of my car. He gave them a quick once-over.

“Pick them up… Thursday,” he said, nodding curtly. He asked for my phone number, then printed up a ticket and handed it to me.

“Okay, thanks!” I said. “‘Bye now.” I looked at the ticket. Four days was a long time to go without our comforters, but he was ten dollars cheaper than the dry cleaners near my house.

SCORE.

After suffering under thin blankets for a few chilly nights, Thursday couldn’t come fast enough. I picked up the kids from school that afternoon and then headed back over to the dry cleaner. Once again, the man was sitting there with his dog beside him. This time, the critter was dressed in a little yellow sweater. I smiled indulgently. “There’s that doggy again,” I said to the children. “See?” The man stood up and came to my window and I handed him my ticket. He looked at it.

“Not ready,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.” Without a word of explanation, he turned and went back inside. My smile changed to a frown. I drove away.

“Mommy, I want my blanket,” Bruiser whined from the backseat.

“I know, honey,” I said through gritted teeth. “I want mine, too.” As if in league with my new dry cleaner, the temperature dropped another 20 degrees that night. Bruiser got the extra comforter we kept stashed in the hall closet. Meanwhile, huddled underneath two guest room blankets, my husband and I had never been so cold.

The very next afternoon, I headed back to the dry cleaners. It was so cold that the man had closed his sliding glass door. I peered inside and could see him behind the counter, with his back to me. He was wearing a large pair of headphones. I tapped on the glass. “Hello,” I called. Nothing. I opened the sliding glass door and stepped tentatively inside. “Hello?” I said. He didn’t move. “Hello. Hello! HELLO HELLO HELLOOOOOO!” At my feet, the dog barked. The man still didn’t turn around. I sighed and looked out at my children in the car, who gazed back at me with questioning faces. This sucked.

Finally, the man turned around. He saw me and grimaced.

“Not ready yet,” he said. “Come back Monday.”

“Monday?” I said. “But this is my third trip! What is going on?”

“Not ready,” he repeated, motioning for me to leave. “Come back Monday.” As I was shepherded toward the door, I turned back. “We are very cold,” I said pleadingly. I wanted to make sure he understood. I held my arms and shivered exaggeratedly. “VERY COLD,” I repeated.

“Come back Monday,” he said, sliding his glass door shut.

Scowling, I got back in the car.

“Where are our blankets, mommy?” Punky asked from the backseat.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” I said, seething. We went back home and endured two more bone chilling nights of thin blanket torture.

I went back Monday afternoon, of course. This time, I didn’t smile when I saw the man and his stupid dog.

He came to the door. “Not ready,” he said.

Not ready? NOT READY?! That was it. I had had about enough. I needed to let this horrid man see for himself my white hot rage, my righteous fury. And I needed to not do it in front of the kids. Quickly I stepped out of the car and shut the door. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this angry. I was about to GO BALLISTIC.

“What the heck!” I shrieked. He gazed back at me impassively. I said it again, more slowly.

“What! The! HECK!”

Yes, readers, that is what happens when you make Lindsay Ferrier mad. Mess with the bull and you get the horns.

“Come back tomorrow,” the man said, but this time I thought I detected a hint of fear in his voice, a certain vague tone of near-hysteria, which I chose to believe indicated a newfound respect for the value of my time.

I gave him one last long look of indignation, then left.

“What happened, Mommy?” my daughter asked.

“What happened was that I let that man know I was not pleased,” I said. “Those comforters will be there tomorrow. Mark my words.”

And sure enough, they were. The next afternoon, he loaded them into the back of my car without a word of apology. And he charged me full price. And his dog totally peed on my tire, too.

Gah.

Of course, I didn’t go back. But I also didn’t tell you this story for a few months because I was so embarrassed that I had completely lost my temper in front of that man. What will my readers think of me when they know the truth about the seething rage that lies beneath my smiling exterior? I asked myself. What will they do when they see the full extent of my uncontrolled anger?

Well, now that you know what happens when I get ugly, I guess that decision is up to you. I think we’ll still be okay, you and me. We seem to get along pretty well, don’t you think? But I do have one small piece of advice, in light of what I’ve just admitted:

DO NOT MAKE ME WHAT THE HECK YOU.

Because you will live to regret it.

 

Image via JordanFischer/Flickr